


a parliament of owls

by norio



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-18 00:03:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7291519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norio/pseuds/norio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Y'know, at first glance, Bokuto comes across as the team pillar, like an 'elder brother,' but in actuality, he's more like the 'baby of the family...'" - Miyanoshita Eri</p>
<p>"Geh." - Akaashi Keiji</p>
            </blockquote>





	a parliament of owls

“That’s the new setter.”

The raspy voice scrapes across the gym from the cluster of second years. At first glance, they’re scattered on the sidelines. One sits, another sprawls, a third hovers. But a cohesion forms, gathered close to a student in the center, someone with crossed arms and smirking grin. A shock of wild hair. Arched eyebrows. Knowing eyes. And like an invisible current, the second years twist their heads and gaze in Akaashi’s direction. 

Oh, Akaashi thinks. For a second, he stands in a cold forest under a midnight sky. A myriad of eyes glow behind masked branches, predatory and hungry. Sitting on the biggest tree, basking with the largest span of mottled wings, the leader stares down upon him. His face is placid, hidden in the whispering shadows. The others behind him flutter their wings, ruffle their feathers, waiting. Then, the leader grins.

“Akaashi Keiji,” he says warmly. 

**onaga**

Akaashi tapes his fingers together while the others talk on the court. The new first-year student towers over them, his hands polite against his stomach. Invisible lines, Akaashi thinks. Onaga is more used to fetching drinks and wiping down the court than being a starting member. Despite his strength and his height, he moves hesitantly with the third years, stiff and robotic.

A hand grabs Onaga by the shoulder. 

Other hands follow, pulling Onaga away from Bokuto’s grasp. The argument swells to a frantic squabble. Bokuto mimics a spike and strikes a pose. Sarukai shakes his head, Komi snickers, Konoha rolls his eyes. From the bench, Akaashi can hear _decoy_ and _cool_ and _awesome_ floating from Bokuto. Onaga laughs, shoulders relaxed, and holds out his hands. He’s swallowed by the team in apologies for Bokuto’s behavior. 

No need to overthink things. Akaashi tests the springiness of the tape and rises from the bench.

**washio**

“I didn’t, I didn’t!” Bokuto insists. Akaashi swallows another long sigh. The argument tires him on the sticky summer day, though he’s only spoken one cutting sentence. A stubborn petulance settles into the crinkles of Bokuto’s scrunched nose and animation of his hands. 

“You did,” Washio says.

“Fine, I did!” Immediately, Bokuto deflates and his eyes slam shut.   
Akaashi feels exasperation at Bokuto’s incoherent wailing. But Washio’s expression doesn’t change, arms crossing in front of his chest, the formidable middle blocker who shields him.

**shirofuku**

“I absolutely won’t forget,” Bokuto says.

“He will,” Akaashi says. Bokuto strangles out his name. Shirofuku hums, the treasured notebook in her hands. She flips through the pages with her neat handwriting sprawled over the lines. Bokuto hungrily stretches out his hands.

“Lunch,” she says, “for a week.” She passes the notebook to him. He yelps hasty thanks, darting off to copy down the notes. 

“He’ll forget,” Akaashi says.

“He’ll absolutely forget,” Shirofuku says, rolling her eyes and biting back a twitch of her mouth.

**komi**

Akaashi considers pulling the pillows over his ears. In the corner of the room, under the stifling heat, two shadows huddle underneath a blanket. The flashlight illuminates a stack of manga and a set of cards. Even when Akaashi shoves his face into his pillow, he can hear the rustling of blankets and whispered shouting.

“That card was in defense mode.”

“That’s cheap! You should always be in attack mode!” 

“You know, that’s stupid, but kinda convincing.”

Akaashi itches to slide out of his futon and kick over the makeshift tent. His muscles ache from the long day of practice. But the other third years occasionally wake to the barely subdued shouting, yawn, and turn back to sleep. Akaashi finally gives up on disturbing the impromptu party and closes his eyes.

“But playing everything in attack mode is weird, don’t you think?”

“It’s the right way to play! Don’t you trust me?”

“No,” Komi says in a voice that says _yes_.

**sarukai**

The first time it happens, Akaashi’s hands freeze on the ball. The other team wipes their sweat on their practice bibs, hiding their smirks. Bokuto has landed on his knees, a stoic martyr in his frustration. Don’t toss to him anymore, he had declared. 

Akaashi thinks. He thinks and thinks and thinks. The other team clearly heard Bokuto’s declaration. He needs to strategize. No, should he try to pull Bokuto out of this slump? No, should he set the ball more to Onaga? Konoha? Washio? 

Sarukai laughs. 

“Geez,” he says. “That’s the way it is, huh?” He’d been blocked by their opponents too, but the frustration flows away from his shoulders. He hits Bokuto’s back with amused levity, a new confidence restored in his eyes. 

“Again? Come on, Bokuto.” Komi follows, smacking Bokuto’s shoulders. Bokuto jerks limply at the hits, sulking like a child. The tension wafts away, leaving behind trinkets of laughter. Akaashi loosens his hold on the ball, unhinging the stiffness of his joints. 

“No helping it, then,” Sarukai says. Akaashi often hears him protest that he wasn’t actually smiling. But this time, the incline of Sarukai’s mouth is definite and strong, an exasperated smile. 

**suzumeda**

“So what did you think?” Bokuto lounges on the bench, arm held out. Akaashi picks through the first-aid box, finding a square bandage for the ugly scrape along Bokuto’s elbow. 

“Um,” Suzumeda says. “You look like an owl?” 

The bandage tilts crookedly on Bokuto’s elbow. Akaashi hadn’t been expecting that answer. But Bokuto explodes into peals of laughter, head thrown back in pride. Suzumeda closes the first-aid kit and collects the neat pile of bandage wrappers. Her ponytail sways along her back, assured in her quick step.

**konoha**

_Keep your spirits up._ Akaashi wonders if any of his teammates would believe those words. _We can do it._ That sounded cheesy and insincere. _If we keep up our attack_ , but he couldn’t finish that sentence. Even with their highest block, the opponent’s spikes slammed across the court. Akaashi takes another swig from his water bottle. The scorekeepers talk over the board, exchanging pleasantries over a six-score disparity. They were losing. The team was flagging, silently gulping down the water and resting their hands on their thighs. His lungs burn in his chest.

“Augh!” Bokuto slams his water bottle on the bench. Even the coach startles at the sound, stern expression melting into shock. 

“We’re going to win!” Bokuto points to the other team. “We’re going take this set and the next! We’re going to sweep nationals! We’re going to win! Got it!” 

Normally, Akaashi says _and what about your missed spikes_ or _wasn’t that a net touch_ or _didn’t they hit off your block_. But Bokuto stares out to the court, a feverish focus to his eyes. Sweat drips off his chin. He doesn’t spare the scoreboard even a stray glance, fingers hitched to his hips. 

“If you say so,” Konoha says, almost sing-song, but he lowers his voice to Akaashi. “It’s okay to toss to me some more, you know.” It’s a complex present of relying on Akaashi’s judgment and taking the burden from Bokuto’s shoulders, but Konoha can play any role. He blocks, he receives, he spikes, he sets, he smirks, he waves his hands, he demands the toss, he screws his face at Komi, he leads. He follows.

When Akaashi darts to the setting position, he can see Konoha in the back. The fatigue has evaporated from his sharp face, leaving behind clean concentration. Bokuto slams down the ball, which flies into a milling crowd. Bokuto celebrates and Akaashi turns to catch Konoha staring at Bokuto’s back, smirking with admiration flooding his eyes. 

**akaashi**

For Akaashi, it’s simple. Bokuto is most obviously a captain when he plays volleyball. In the tug-of-war of points, Bokuto flies across the court and smashes the ball with echoing force. His spikes skid between players and knocks back liberos. His shots amaze and astound the surrounding crowd, who watch with bated breath to his impressive displays of strength and skill. The light will pour down his back and he will beam with a simple and powerful radiance—

No, that’s not it.

For Akaashi, it’s simple. Bokuto is most obviously a captain when he displays his weakness. Like a switch, the team rallies around him with newfound amusement. Bokuto’s personality barrels over allies and opponents, and they follow in the rampage’s wake and pass out apologies like flowers. When Bokuto relies on him and needs sharp words to rein his inflated ego, Akaashi feels important and carries out the team’s goals—

No, that’s not it.

For Akaashi, it’s not simple.

It’s sitting with his back to the gym wall, jotting down the day’s work in his notebook. Bokuto sprawls next to him, jacket slung around his shoulders to ward off the cooling sweat. 

“Are you done yet? You’re slow, Akaashi!” Bokuto whines, muffled into the crook of his elbow.

“This is your job.” Akaashi quashes the surge of annoyance. As vice-captain, he always picks up what Bokuto leaves behind. He attends the meetings and arranges the schedules while Bokuto plies the other captains with enticing field trip games. 

“Really?” Bokuto blinks. “Well, whatever. It’ll all be yours one day.” 

Akaashi slows his pencil, dragging out the strokes. Bokuto thinks one second at a time, so a sentence like that is a revelation. But the statement wasn’t completely correct. In the next year, Bokuto would take away most of the starting team. That wouldn’t be his. The lingering after practice, the hot-headed declarations at training camp, the bothering of other teams, those weren’t his to give. Then again, Akaashi might still be responsible for the technicalities of a captain’s duties. He casts a dour look to the notebook. 

If he was captain—the thought slugs through his blood, a part of him unwilling to gaze into the world after the spring tournament, but—if he was captain, he’d be a responsible captain. As the setter, he already signals the plans behind his back, fingers flickering through the myriad of plays. He is the tower. And, evident by the smudged pencil markings, he already completes the captain’s duties. In any respect, he would make a better captain than Bokuto.

But still.

Bokuto is the captain, pulling and pushed by the team. To him, Bokuto is the simple kindness in the cold forest, hands reaching out and wings curving around them. Sleepless nights, irritating days, the clean squeak of shoes on the court, the rummaging in the club room, the jabbed elbows on buses, the raucous laughter in his ear. Bokuto gives affection. Bokuto demands affection. Yet Akaashi is not a first year who flatters himself by Bokuto’s enthusiasm. He is not a third year who shares that easy camaraderie. He is—

A soft thud on his shoulder shocks him from his reverie. Bokuto snores softly, leaning heavily on him. So he was apparently tired enough to sleep within minutes of sitting down, but he still had insisted on practicing for hours more. Bokuto’s calloused hands curl over his kneepads, where his bent leg brushes against Akaashi’s straight knee. 

This is it, Akaashi thinks. The sunset burning at the lip of the horizon. The gym lights scattering across the court. 

The gentle warmth on his shoulder.


End file.
